On Saturday evening, April 11, as Orthodox Christians gather across Greece, Romania, Serbia and a dozen other countries to celebrate the most sacred night of their calendar, they will light candles from a flame that left Jerusalem just hours earlier. The Holy Fire, said to emerge miraculously from the tomb of Christ at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, will have made its way to Athens on a government aircraft, then fanned out across the Greek islands on Aegean and Sky Express flights, before being driven to local parishes in time for midnight. Moldova will receive it by road from Iași, having been flown there from Bucharest. Seven business jets departed Tel Aviv last year carrying the flame to Sofia, Warsaw, Yerevan, Tbilisi, Moscow and Belgrade simultaneously.

This year, the Holy Fire ceremony itself will alas be a shadow of its usual self. Conflict in the Middle East has reduced the ancient gathering in Jerusalem to just 50 people. The Old City, normally packed with pilgrims at this time of year, is all but empty. But the logistics machine that now carries the flame to millions of believers will carry on regardless.

The whole operation, made up of aircraft corridors, special lanterns engineered to carry an open flame in pressurised cabins, a last-mile distribution network reaching Greek island parishes and Moldovan villages before midnight, has been in place for more than 30 years. It is a just-in-time supply chain built around a ritual as old as Christianity. The church, in other words, has some form here.

In the beginning

The notion that religious institutions are innately hostile to new ideas has always been more convenient than accurate. Churches have periodically suppressed inconvenient thinkers (Galileo’s house arrest is the gift that keeps on giving to secularist polemicists) but the broader story is more nuanced. Religion and innovation have been bound together since the beginning, whether the church wanted it or not.

Start with Jesus himself. Viewed through the lens of reinvention rather than theology, he was a first-century disruptor of great ambition. He took an existing platform, Second Temple Judaism, stripped out what he considered redundant intermediaries (the money-changers in the temple provide a useful image), reframed its core value proposition as radical inclusion, and built a scalable movement on the most powerful distribution mechanism of the ancient world, namely word of mouth. He also clearly had a gift for the memorable soundbite. The Sermon on the Mount alone contains more quotable lines per sentence than any contemporary brand pitch.

God’s highest act of grace

Fast-forward to the 15th century. When Johannes Gutenberg was casting moveable type in Mainz in the late 1440s, it was the Catholic Church that provided his anchor market. Church leaders wanted uniform Latin Bibles to standardise worship across Europe, and Gutenberg obliged. One contemporary called the press “God’s highest act of grace”. The early print runs skewed heavily towards religious texts (indulgences, psalters, devotional manuals.) The church was, in effect, the venture capital that made the first information revolution possible.

That the technology eventually escaped their control and powered the Reformation is history’s great irony. Luther would not have gone viral without Gutenberg, and Gutenberg would have struggled without the church’s demand. Both sides, Catholic and Protestant, weaponised the press in the decades that followed, commissioning tracts, devotional images, and theological rebuttals with the fervour of today’s competing social media teams. The church, having co-invented the medium, knew how to use it.

The original innovation lab

Go back further still. The Benedictine Order decreed in the sixth century that every monastery should maintain an infirmary. Hospitals, of the secular, publicly funded kind, came several centuries later. The Syrian Church pioneered medical care in the East, while the Knights Hospitaller, founded in Jerusalem in the 11th century to protect Christian pilgrims, became one of the most sophisticated healthcare networks of the medieval world. Most of Europe’s earliest universities (think Bologna, Paris, Oxford) emerged from cathedral schools. For most of the Middle Ages, if you wanted to pursue serious research, you either joined a religious order or you did not pursue it at all.

The most striking example is Gregor Mendel, the Augustinian friar whose pea-plant experiments at the monastery of St Thomas in Brno between 1856 and 1863 laid the foundations of modern genetics. Mendel was not, as the popular myth has it, a shy gardener who stumbled upon his findings by accident. He was a trained scientist working with the full institutional resources of his monastery, such as its greenhouse, its research plots, its library, and the intellectual community of monks around him. Over eight years he cultivated and cross-bred more than 28,000 plants, applying statistical methods that would not become standard in biology for another generation. Without the monastery, the science of genetics is delayed. Without Mendel’s laws of inheritance, Darwin’s theory of natural selection (which needed them to be complete) takes longer to take hold.

Logistics as theology

Which brings us back to the Holy Fire. The organised air transfer of the sacred flame is not a gimmick dreamt up by a marketing department. It is the church doing what it has always done: taking a mission and finding whatever tools the age provides to pursue it. Until relatively recently, that meant monks on horseback. In 2026, it means business jets, domestic aviation networks, and specialised containers rated for pressurised-cabin open-flame transport. 

For firms and start-ups obsessed with reinvention, the church offers a two-millennia template. Identify the mission, preserve the ritual, but change everything else, (re)inventing the tools you need in order to do so. The church has never waited for permission to adopt new technology, it has simply asked whether the technology serves the mission. Gutenberg’s press was not a threat to be resisted but a pulpit to be seized. Aviation was not a novelty to be admired from a distance but a logistics network to be commandeered. What Silicon Valley calls a pivot, the church has been calling a council for two thousand years. The difference is that a council produces not a deck of slides but a doctrine: a clear, transmissible statement of what the organisation is for. That, in the end, is what most firms that struggle to reinvent themselves are actually missing. Not the tools, but the doctrine.

Photo: Dreamstime.